


If You Hadn't - But You Did (Murder, He Wrote)

by theswearingkind



Category: RPS Fall Out Boy
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-29
Updated: 2013-10-29
Packaged: 2017-12-28 21:28:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theswearingkind/pseuds/theswearingkind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing about shooting your bastard cheater of a boyfriend is, it doesn’t really make you feel all that much better in the long run.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If You Hadn't - But You Did (Murder, He Wrote)

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written several years ago for the LJ Comm 7_Vices, for the challenge of "wrath." Title from the Comden and Green show "Two on the Aisle."

The thing about shooting your bastard cheater of a boyfriend is, it doesn’t really make you feel all that much better in the long run. Sure, there’s the immediate satisfaction of it, but then you’re stuck with clean-up (and for a little dude, Pete sure has a lot of blood – and for such a fucking dumbass, he has a surprising amount of brain matter) and finding some place to stash the body (because it’s not like he can just dump it somewhere and hope that no one recognizes it – Pete’s famous, duh, and covered in exceptionally distinctive ink, and half the world and ninety-nine percent of the scene could I.D. him based off of his dick alone. The other one percent is mainly Gerard, who refused to look at the photos on the grounds that it was practically incest, and if he wanted that he’d just watch _Supernatural_.)

So, yeah. Patrick doesn’t feel bad about it, exactly, but he’s not particularly thrilled, either. For one thing, Pete was a great lay, and Patrick will miss hitting that. And this is probably going to make the band thing awkward.

But. It’s water under the bridge, at this point. Or, like. Blood under the shoes. Whatever.

He knows he’s going to have to get rid of the body, and _soon_ , but. Pete _really_ isn’t pulling off the decomposing-corpse look. He’s not Gerard.

Pete actually looks kind of pathetic now, and Patrick maybe feels a little bit bad about it. And it's not like Patrick's a _horrible_ guy or whatever. He has a temper, sure – a bad temper, and he kind of lost it today. But he knows how important Pete's looks were to him, and there’s really no reason to be intentionally _cruel_.

Patrick killed the guy. The least he can do is make sure his foundation is evenly applied.

*

Clearly, the only thing left to do is call Ryan. Because if anybody is going to handle the news that he killed Pete with relative calm, it’s going to be George Ryan Ross. (Patrick secretly believes that Ryan has no soul. His eyes are just...dead, sometimes, when Patrick looks at him, he feels like a cadaver has wrapped its fingers around his throat.)

“Ross,” he hisses, once Ryan finally answers his phone. His ringtone, for the record, is the Backstreet Boys. “Ryan, man. I need your help.”

“Patrick?” Ryan mumbles. “What are you – what _time_ is it, man?”

“A quarter past shut the fuck up, dude, I need your help.” Shit. He is never going to get the stains out of the carpet. Really, who has white carpet now? Pete is – well, _was_ – worth something like ten gazillion dollars, why didn’t he spring for a place with hardwood floors?

“Now? At – at fucking three fifteen? This better be good, Patrick, I – ” His voice gets softer, suddenly, like he’s turned away from the mouthpiece. “No, Spence, it’s just Patrick. I don’t know, dude, go back to sleep, okay?” There’s a soft, fumbling noise before Patrick can really hear him again. “Patrick, man, what the fuck?”

Patrick curses. “I – look, Ryan, just. Just get dressed and come to Pete’s place, okay? I’ll tell you everything when you get here. And, uh, bring your makeup. Like, your stage stuff, not what you wear everyday.”

“Fuck that, tell me now, dude, or I swear to God – ”

Patrick hangs up, looks down, and promptly pitches a bitch fit, because there are brains on his shoes.

*

“Holy fuck,” Ryan says faintly, when he sees.

Patrick scratches the back of his neck. “Yeah.” He’d managed to get most of it up before Ryan got there, but it still looks kind of like Sweeney Todd stopped by.

“Did you – ?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Patrick scowls. “I didn’t get her name.”

“Oh,” Ryan says, pauses. “This didn’t strike you as a little excessive?”

The glare Patrick sends Ryan has been known to shatter glass. “Just clean him up a little, maybe put a little eyeliner on him, then help me get him out of here, okay?”

Ryan practically recoils. “ _What_?” he says, aghast. “No!”

“You owe me,” Patrick points out.

“Not this big.”

Patrick snorts, because that’s a lie and they both know it. Pete might have been the one who gave Ryan a record deal, but Patrick’s the one who pulls Pete’s strings. Or, like. _Pulled_ them, anyway. Also, “Who do you think convinced William not to tell Spencer about your little – indiscretion?”

Ryan is fair-skinned at the best of times, but he turns Casper-white so fast it’s almost funny. “You didn’t – you _wouldn’t_ – ”

Patrick looks pointedly at the corpse on the floor, where what remains of Pete Wentz is oozing out of a bullet wound in his left temple.

“Or – or maybe you would,” Ryan reconsiders. “But – dude, come on. These pants are _white_. Blood stains like a motherfucker, man.”

“I know,” Patrick says. Seriously, this carpet is a lost cause.


End file.
